


Stories, In the End

by fowl68



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fictional Religion & Theology, Friendship, Gen, Hair Braiding, Non-Chronological, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Renegades, Spoilers, War, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowl68/pseuds/fowl68
Summary: After four thousand years, no one really remembered the Summon Spirits anymore. All that was left was the Goddess. Except you can't get rid of everything.A look at how things tend to linger, even under Cruxis.
Relationships: Anna/Kratos Aurion, Kratos Aurion & Colette Brunel, Kratos Aurion & Lloyd Irving, Martel Yggdrasill & Mithos Yggdrasill
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Efreet

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I have a lot of THOUGHTS on the religious and spiritual practices of Sylvarant and Tethe'alla, and how they went from (I'm assuming) a polytheistic model of the Summon Spirits to a very monotheistic model with the Goddess Martel, and how traditions are changed and adapted and folded into each other. Especially since Mithos had a very vested interest in keeping the Spirits tucked away and largely forgotten about, and keeping the Goddess at the forefront.
> 
> So that's what this is. These are going to be short fics basically just exploring how the Spirits USED to be worshipped, from the little things to the big things, and how those traditions have been changed or used by the modern Church of Martel.
> 
> There is going to be a chapter for each of the Spirits. I have some quick ideas down for all of them, some chapters are mostly written, they just need some tweaking and fine-tuning. I'm taking my inspiration from everywhere I can possibly think of. The tags will expand with each chapter. I don't want anything to be like, a one-to-one ratio for any existing religions, though obviously the Church is set up in a very specific way. If y'all have any thoughts or ideas on this, please share. I love discussing this stuff, it's my jam.
> 
> Title is from that infamous 11th Doctor Regeneration speech. "We're all stories, in the end." Which I think is rather fitting for this fic.

* * *

"Of all the fires, love is the only inexhaustible one."

-Pablo Neruda

* * *

Efreet was a demanding Spirit, but a fair one. You paid him the proper respect, he repaid it. This, the artisans knew well. He had been the one to give them fire, after all; he had seen the mortals shivering and took a piece of the sun from Aska and birthed fire from his hands. He was the hearthfire that families huddled around, and the joyous sun after a storm, even as he was the roar of wildfires and molten mess of dragonfire.

The first thing a blacksmith apprentice would learn were the locations of the iron talismans that were hung about the forge. Specifically, one over the fire, one on the anvil, and one over every door. Some places had more, but those were the basic requirements. After that, they were given their broom or their bellows and were put to work. Every time someone passed one of the talismans, they had to touch it—minus the one on the anvil because it was just safer to keep your fingers out of it. But that one got shown respect by tapping the anvil with your hammer every other strike.

“The bad spirits don’t like the sound,” the older apprentices would say, trading places at the bellows so the new kids could have a spot of lunch. “So it keeps them away, lets the metals stay pure.”

The potters’ apprentices said much the same, when they collaborate or cover for each other. “We have our talismans on our kiln, and on our wheels,” they said. “To protect the pots when they get fired.”

The lesser known trick of the potters were that when, inevitably, pieces exploded in the kiln, they took those broken pieces and they buried them in the desert as a request for Efreet’s guidance for the next piece. 

* * *

Kratos followed the Chosen into the chapel of the House of Salvation, but stayed by the door. There were no threats here to her safety, but Kratos the mercenary couldn’t guarantee that in the same way Kratos the angel could. The chapel was also most of the ground floor, with a step demarcating the edge of holy ground.

Of course, given the religious homogeneity of the worlds, the chapel _was_ the common room, and as such, travelers ate and gathered there without batting an eye. But all were careful to scrape some of their meals into the hearth, as an offering.

They were the only visitors right now, and it was well into spring. As such, the only fire in the room was the candle by the altar, a beacon guiding lost souls to the Goddess. Or so the Church preached, anyway. Colette took a long matchstick from a box at the altar and lit the other candles in the chapel before going back to the front, hands clasped in prayer.

Personally, Kratos couldn’t stand the smell of churches. Between the candlesmoke and the incense, the old damp smell of the wood and papers. He was happy to block off his sense of smell for the occasion.

The bell rung nine times, echoing out across the fields. It had doubled, at some point, as a time marker as well as the Church using the sound of the Goddess’ purity _(Mithos had snorted at the description when he heard about the tradition)_ to drive away monsters.

Colette beamed at him as she finished. “Did you want me to leave the candles on for you?”

Kratos shook his head. “I’m not particularly religious,” he told her. It was an odd statement for someone, particularly the Chosen, from Iselia to hear. Iselia was an isolated community, with a very dedicated chapel. Colette didn’t bat an eye though, carefully snuffing the candles out.

* * *

Lloyd and Raine took turns on who tended to stay up the latest. Both worked on their projects late into the night. Raine with her research, and Lloyd would often be either training, or fiddling with the small puzzle boxes he liked to get if he had some spare gald. He whittled often, whenever he had the luxury of idle hands. He’d proudly shown Kratos his carvings, and Kratos could admit that he had quite a bit of skill. He’d carved birds, and delicate flowers. Noishe had appeared once or twice, as well as bears and wolves.

“People are hard for me,” Lloyd said, smoothing away splinters and dust with his thumb. “Dad’s really good at them—he gets commissions _all the time_ for gravemarkers and Goddess statues. Personal angel type things, y’know? For good luck?”

“I imagine getting the likenesses is the difficult part,” Kratos said, still somewhat in awe of his son’s ability. Kratos had never been particularly creative. His only artistic sensibilities had come in his own notebooks, trying to mimic the drawings on Temple walls when they travelled, collecting all the various versions of stories. Yuan and Martel had been far better at it, really, though Yuan’s were more mechanical in nature.

Anna had been artistic, though she’d found her creativity through a camera lens.

“He made me look like a fish once!” Genis said from the cookfire.

“It was one of my _first tries_!”

“Still!”

He’d shown Kratos Colette’s necklace, also done entirely by his hand. “Dad says I’m better at delicate things like this,” Lloyd said. “Dad forges swords and knives and things—and I can make those too—but his are always much better.”

Kratos wondered if Dirk kept a talisman over his forge for Efreet’s blessings. He knew little of modern dwarven beliefs.

Still, once everyone was asleep, Kratos scraped some of his scant leftovers into the fire. They’d done it on the battlefields once, assuming that there had been so much as crumbs left on their plates. Prayers to make sure they made it back home safely.

Efreet wasn’t likely to answer anyone’s prayers these days, but definitely not Kratos’. Still, Kratos tried. Praying for his son’s safety, and as a thank you to the Spirit of forges and kilns who’d kept his son clothed and fed all those years Kratos couldn’t.


	2. Undine

* * *

_"A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships were built for."  
_ _-John A. Shedd_

* * *

The stories of the legendary sea captains who brave the oceans, sailing through maelstroms and battling leviathans were a favorite among the children. And the best captains were all women, the old sailors would tell their grandchildren, who are invocations of Undine herself. Ferocious and kind and absolutely terrifying to all the pearl-clutching passengers. And those who didn’t have the blessings of a female captain invoked them in their own way, carving the bowsprits with Undine’s likeness.

Those same old sailors would smoke and broil their fish, but always take a portion of it and throw it into the sea. “Ye have the thank Undine,” they’d say, serving up dinner. “For providing the meal. And fer her generosity.”

The tourists and the traders—the overland ones—didn’t get that about Undine. Didn’t understand how the ocean could be at once generous and dangerous. They only ever saw one or the other. But the locals all knew how to read the tides, knew the stories of how beloved Luna was of Undine, and knew that to ask for safe passage, tossing a round silver coin into the sea was the most surefire way. It would remind Undine of Luna, and Undine would calm the seas for her.

* * *

Despite living in Palmacosta all her life, Chocolat had her grandfather’s unfortunate affliction of seasickness. Marble laughed good-naturedly when her granddaughter came home early from following her father to work.

“Your grandpa wasn’t good with ships either,” Marble would say, making her a ginger tea to help settle her stomach. “His loss that he married into our family.” They’d been traders for years.

Still, Chocolat spent many early mornings bringing in shipments from the pier to their shop, and then helping her mom stock the shelves before going to school. Her grandfather had sold his old boat to the son of a friend of theirs, who took great pride in it. Even Chocolat could admit, the boat was a lovely one. Smooth, worn wood, the image of the Goddess carved into the bowsprit, her wings spread in flight along the bow. It had been carved by her great-great-great grandfather as a wedding present.

There were other ways to travel than the sea, though, and Chocolat was more than happy to travel that way. She’d always been good at retaining information, and so when the Church needed a tour guide for their pilgrimages, Chocolat signed up.

Her mother’s pressed her lips together when Chocolat ran in to tell her about the new job. “I worry about you,” she said. “There’s Desians all along those roads.”

“Mom, I can’t just not live my life because of the Desians.”

Cacao didn’t say anything more on the subject until Chocolat left for her first day of work. It was a shorter pilgrimage, since it was her first one, just out to Thoda. Still, it was a week and a half’s trip there and back. As Chocolat double and triple-checked her bag, Cacao pressed two silver coins into her hands, the kinds passed out by the Church for missionaries and pilgrimages.

“One for when you leave here, and one for when you leave Thoda.”

“ _Mom_. I already left my offerings at the Church.” And the Church had provided her own silver token for safe passage.

“Do it for me. For my peace of mind.”

“…Okay.”

As she passed over the last bridge before the city gates, Chocolat took out one of the coins and flipped it into the sea. It was some old superstition that her grandmother had been taught. It was dumb—why should a perfectly good coin be tossed into the sea instead of the offering plate?—but if it helped keep her mom from worrying about her, Chocolat would do it.

As she went to leave, Chocolat passed her hand over one of the old carved portraits in the center of the bridges. The face was so worn away that it couldn’t be identified, but from the long hair it was clearly a woman, and Chocolat likes to think that the Goddess was watching over her people even in little places like that. Squaring her shoulders and tossing one look back at the city she’d grown up in, Chocolat waved to her tour group gathered by the gates and they were ready to set out.

* * *

The festival was in full swing when they neared Luin. Anna bounced excitedly next to Kratos. She hadn’t been home in over a decade, and while she obviously couldn’t talk to her family or friends, it would be nice just to be home.

Besides, the Desian posters were looking for a starved waif with shorn brown hair and a scar on her cheek. They'd purchased some makeup in Palmacosta, and while it had taken some trial and error and asking the nice salesperson how, Anna could cover up her scar well enough to make it much less noticeable. Anna’s hair had grown out, and Kratos had helped her dye it darker, nearly black, for the festival. It had been a pain to convince him to even consider going, but it was the harvest festival and there were going to be so many people anyway that Anna wouldn’t even stand out. Kratos, cautious and paranoid as he was—for good reason, Anna would admit—had wanted more precautions.

“How are you so good at dyeing hair?” Anna had asked, observing herself in Lake Umacy. Doing it at an inn was too obvious.

“We had to be in disguise much of the time when we were in human territory.” Kratos was soaping and scrubbing his hands free of the dye as best he could. “Yuan and Martel were…particularly recognizable with their hair.”

“Did you dye yours too?”

“Sometimes.” Kratos’ nose wrinkled. “And I had to grow out my beard too.”

He shouldn’t have said that. Anna’s eyes had _gleamed_. “A _beard_? You? Oh you must have looked like a mountain man.”

Kratos could feel his ears burning. “It was very itchy.”

Anna laughed and ducked to kiss his smooth cheek. Kratos’ hair grew at a snail’s pace; he only had to shave every few decades, or so he said. “Don’t worry. I think you’d look handsome even with a beard.”

He turned and caught her lips in a quick kiss. “I’d say the same for you.”

Anna had sputtered into laughter, Kratos’ lips quirked in his own mischief.

Luin smelled of roasting meat and woodsmoke, kites flying out in the empty fields and it was still early enough in the day that people were leaping into the lake.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been swimming,” Anna said absently, arm tucked in Kratos’ as they moved through the crowds. The official population of Luin was much smaller, but all the nearby farms came out this way once their harvest was done to celebrate.

“I wouldn’t recommend it here.”

Anna patted his arm reassuringly. “I know. But maybe we can hit a beach or another lake. It’ll be fun.”

Anna pulled them towards whatever stall caught her attention, snacking on duck dumplings, and buns of lotus paste. They shared sticks of meat dripping with sauce, and fresh fried fish with garlic and scallions. Anna absentmindedly sucked the remaining sauce from her fingers, laughing at how pointedly Kratos was looking forward.

While Anna couldn’t really stop and converse with people, it was nice to just be among them like this. To see them and know that they were still okay. She quietly told Kratos whatever gossip she could remember, like how the butcher’s daughter was together with the cobbler’s son and no one would have seen that coming ten years ago, but there they were with two kids. Kratos listened patiently, offering comments now and again.

As they passed the fountain, Anna tugged at Kratos’ hand. “Lemme see our money pouch?”

Bemused, Kratos offered it up. Anna dug through it quickly. There wasn’t much gald in there, not after a day like today, but both of them were good at finding odd jobs. She picked out four silver coins and bounced to the fountain, Kratos on her heels.

“Do you know the story of this fountain?”

Kratos shook his head.

“It’s the oldest part of town. It’s stood through rebellions and riots and invasions. Supposedly, it’s because the Goddess blessed this fountain.” Kratos didn’t outwardly show any emotion at the mention of Martel, but Anna had learned him well enough by now. She also knew not to call attention to it, not out in public like this, so she powered through. “We both know how true that is. Either way, the legend goes that if you throw a coin in the fountain, you’ll return to the city someday.”

She flipped one in.

“Two coins is to fall in love with someone.”

Another flipped coin.

“Three is to marry that person.”

Flip.

Anna rolled the last coin in her palm before flipping it in.

“What does four coins mean?” Kratos asked quietly, resting one hand on the small of her back.

“Oh, that doesn’t mean anything officially. I just through I’d thank whoever it is doing those blessings.” Anna turned into him, grinning as she linked her arms around his neck. “The other three already came true for me, after all.”

He hummed as he dipped in to kiss her, and it only made her grin harder.


	3. Luna and Aska

* * *

_"The sun loved the moon so much,  
he died every night to let her breathe."  
-Anonymous  
_

* * *

It had been something talked about in the same childish dreams of far away wedding days. The way moonstones were tucked into brides’ hands, braided into their hair. Luna would grant them many children, the grandmothers and aunties insisted. Sunstones were sewn into the bodices of their dresses. “For a passionate husband and a generous lover,” the brides’ friends would giggle behind their sleeves.

Martel didn’t have either. Their only moonstone had been a gift from Luna, proof of their pact. Instead, Mithos wove flowers into her hair, and the only thing in the bodice of her dress were her husband’s playful fingers.

It was a story shared between strangers sharing a fire in the night. If you found a feather in the road, you had to burn it at night so Luna could see it and think of her other half, and therefore protect you. Martel was doubtful on that one. She hadn’t done that ever, once in her life, and she and Mithos were still okay.

And if you found a moonflower in the shade of a hot day, you left some salt for Luna’s unicorns. Aska would reward you for your kindness to his other half, and would keep you in good weather for your travels. Martel would share a secret smile with her boys when that story came up. No one ever considered that the horn on her staff was an _actual_ unicorn horn, freely given. That story, though, Martel could vouch for. Unicorns were _very_ fond of salt licks.

* * *

The linkite trees were officially the Sylph and Gnome’s domain, but Aska had grown rather fond of them, showering them with good sunshine so that their songs would carry well beyond the mountains. The mortals that live on the mountains where the trees grow make instruments out of them, sweet flutes, bold drums, and warm zithers, all of whom produce sounds that reach miles away.

Aska’s personal favorites were the flutes. They carried the true melodies of the trees, and he was known to drop in and visit if you played it. On rare occasions, Luna would join him, and they'd hover in the sky and watch people dance and raise their voices to the sky with joy and hope. 

Martel was not an inherently gifted player. She had never been taught properly, and mostly learned by ear and experimentation. She became known around the war camps for playing for her patients at night sometimes, or for starting up jigs on the happier evenings when the soldiers would dance each other around the fires.

Trust Martel to turn something so innocuous as a flute into a tool for war. Her squad had been cornered and they were low on mana, separated from the rest of the platoon. She’d played the flute in hopes that maybe the sound would carry to her brother’s platoon, that they’d be able to get to her.

No one had expected Aska himself to drop from the sky, searing the enemy soldiers alive. That platoon would ink feathers upon their collarbones in memory and in respect, with a single curve of the moon in between. Mithos' fervent, gratitude would be whispered into their moonstone, their pact bond warm and shining from his love.

_(The stories will change one day. Aska will be gone from memory, but his brilliantly shining wings will belong to the Goddess, and her holy light will burn the eyes from nonbelievers)_

* * *

The Tower of Mana was something out of fairytales when Colette first heard about it. A white-bricked tower that rose as high as the surrounding mountains, gilded in moonstones. The Tower was full of mirrors, Phaidra would say, tucking the blankets around her granddaughter.

“They reflect the light of the Goddess back out to keep the monsters away, until the Chosen can come and wake the Goddess and banish the monsters for good.”

“And that’s me, right?”

Phaidra gently stroked Colette’s hair from her face. “That’s right.”

Colette beamed at her. “That sounds exciting! When do I get to go do that?”

“Not for a while. The oracle doesn’t come to children.”

Colette pouted. “But being grown up is so _far away_.”

“Well, you’re right about that. But that’s okay. It will give you time to practice more. You want to be at your best for the Goddess, right?”

“Right!”

“And that means getting enough sleep too.” Phaidra patted Colette’s hands. “Goodnight, Colette. May the Goddess bring you good dreams.”

“Goodnight, Grandma.”

That night, Colette dreamt of a tower full of mirrors and light, some of the rooms blooming in color from the stained glass in the ceilings and walls. She dreamt of a kind woman’s face, of chasing that face through all the bright, mirrored rooms, of laughing and holding her hand.

_(There will be another, taller, Tower one day, also made of white stone where she will go to die. The only reason she doesn’t is because she is loved too much to be let go of, and the tragic irony is not something she ever forgets)_


	4. Sylph

* * *

_"You can wipe out an entire generation, you can burn their homes to the ground and somehow, they'll still find their way back. But if you destroy their history, you destroy their achievements, then it's as if they never existed."  
-_ _-Lt. Frank Stokes (Monuments Men dir. George Clooney)_

* * *

The moment a baby was named in Asgard—thirty days after they were born—they were also given a bracelet woven of three different color threads. It would protect them as they grew.

When they outgrew those bracelets, the bracelets were often turned into tassel to be worn on their hips, or in their hair. “The Sylph won’t be able to recognize you without it,” the aunties would say, carefully weaving the children’s hair. “It holds your name. If they can’t recognize you, they might turn against you, and you never want the wind as your enemy.”

Their names were stolen when the humans came. They cut their hair and burned their tassels. That didn’t stop them from braiding new tassels and bracelets from corn husks they took from the fields. They weren’t the proper colors, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

“Somehow I doubt that Noana gave you medical clearance to be up and about. In fact,” Yuan swept into the room of one of his shame-faced subordinates. “I distinctly remember there being very specific orders to _not_ lift your arms over your head. Something about pulling your stitches and letting your ribs heal.”

Amani was one of the older Renegades, recruited by Botta himself some thirty years ago, but somehow, he still managed to look like a little kid when he ducked his head like that. “I would leave it, but today marks the start of the Founder’s Festival. I can’t have my hair loose for that; my ancestors would kill me!”

Yuan checked his mental calendar; he hadn’t celebrated the Founder’s Festival since he’d been a child, but they were still some of the most sacred days for Asgard. “Then I’ll fix your hair for it. That way Noana doesn’t get to sharpen her knives on your bones.”

Amani’s eyes went wide. “You’d do that for me?”

“Not if you’re going to keep staring like that. Now go sit down.” Yuan grabbed the comb and oil from Amani’s dresser and sat on the bed behind him. Amani’s hair was frizzy and dry from all the bedrest, but Yuan had seen and dealt with worse in his own hair. He massaged the oil through the whole length of his hair before starting to comb the tangles out from the bottom.

“Thank you, Yuan,” Amani said quietly after a few long minutes. “For taking the time to do this. I know you’re busy.”

“I thought you knew by now that I have all the time in the world.”

Amani snorted. “Rahim usually does my hair when I can’t, but they’re on shift in Sybak.”

“You realize that them having to do your hair for you multiple times because of injury is not a great look for you?”

“Well, my boss is a real hardass, y’know.” Yuan could hear Amani’s grin. “Always sending me off on these harebrained missions.”

“And yet, despite the fact that you’re usually _leading_ the missions these days, you’re still the one to come back with the most severe injuries.” Yuan picked apart a stubborn not with his fingers, holding the comb in his teeth. Once it was free, the comb ran smoothly through. Amani’s hair was quite long, having finally grown out again after a rather…unfortunate mishap of one of Rahim’s experiments, back to nearly his waist.

“I can’t let the kids take the hits, Yuan. They’re _babies._ ”

“The youngest on your last mission was twenty-seven,” Yuan said dryly.

“Babies,” Amani insisted. “They have too much life ahead of them to be bogged down by something as small as broken ribs.”

Yuan made a disbelieving sound in his throat as he separated the sections for the first braid. “I’d like to be a fly on the wall when you explain that logic to Rahim.”

“Yuan, you _voyeur_ —”

“Face front unless you want to look lopsided,” Yuan snapped, and Amani stopped mid-turn and looked forward again.

As Yuan finished the first braid, he fumbled for a clip to hold it to Amani’s head. Usually, the hairdresser could ask their subject to hold their own braids in place until the final tie, but _Amani_ had to go and slammed into a wall by a Desian guard machine.

It had been years since Yuan had done anyone’s hair other than his own, besides some quick fixes to one of the children’s here and there. He had some memories of his brother doing his hair, and he knew, logically, that his mother had to have done it at least a few times, but he didn’t actually remember that. Martel had enjoyed plaiting his hair before bed, exclaiming about how beautiful her husband was, and Yuan had done the same for her and Mithos.

It was calming, to do it again. Yuan hadn’t braided his own hair in years; even when he was mucking about with engines, he tossed his hair into a bun and called it a day. He couldn’t forget Martel’s fond laughter and her sweet kiss on his cheek after she finished his hair, her arms around him as he tugged the hair over his shoulder to get a better look at it. Her methods had always been more complex, but the patterns had been pretty; she’d always go pink with pleasure when he told her that.

Yuan gathered the three braids he’d started—one at each temple, and one down the center—and with the much leftover hair, he braided a thicker three strand braid that started at the back of Amani’s head, going down his spine.

Yuan held his hand out around Amani’s shoulder. “Hair tie,” he said, wiggling his fingers a little.

Once the braid was tied off, Yuan moved around Amani to stand up, stretching a little; his hips had not been happy about sitting that way for so long. Amani was looking at Yuan’s handiwork in the mirror, turning his head this way and that.

“You forgot one.”

“There’s three on top, and one main one. That’s how it’s always been.”

Amani stared at Yuan oddly. “It’s four. One for each direction of the wind. The Goddess has the north wind while the Sylph have the other three.”

Yuan looked away; there was an ache somewhere in his chest. They’d destroyed this too, somehow. His own traditions were lost to the millennia of their lies. “It was three,” Yuan insisted, perhaps not as firmly as one would expect out of him. “One per Sylph, and they combined into the final three strand braid to show that it was through their unity that Asgard was blessed.”

“I’ve never heard that. Not that way, anyway. They tell it differently, now.”

The Goddess was a tense subject around Yuan on the best of days, and Amani wasn’t like Botta. He couldn’t just _talk_ to their leader about things like that. Even knowing the truth of what Yuan and Cruxis had done, what it was all _for_ , Amani still believed in _a_ Goddess, even if it wasn’t the one that Cruxis had propped up. After all, they couldn’t prove there _wasn’t_ someone out there, looking out for them.

“I’m sure they do. I don’t know your braids though.” And it would be inappropriate for Yuan to do them with that kind of knowledge. Not that Amani would ever ask him to.

Amani smiled, though it was a bit odd around the edges. He fiercely missed Rahim and their graceful ease to conversation. “I’m honored to wear yours,” he said.

Yuan dipped his head in a nod and was nearly out of the room when Amani called out to him. Yuan half-turned to look at him over his shoulder.

“What?”

“...When my ribs are healed up, could you teach me? Your braids?”

For a long moment, it felt like Yuan would simply ignore him. He did that sometimes, though he tried not to do it as much anymore after people complained. “Alright. But that means listening to the Healers, Amani. I don’t need Noana breathing down my neck about patient restraints.”

Amani laughed and saluted sloppily. “Yessir.”


End file.
